


A Healing Touch

by AlwaysKatie7



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: CF Route, Edeleth if you SQUINT but even that is just teen Edelgard crushing over her professor, Ferdinand is really put through the wringer in this one oh boy, M/M, all of the beagles make an appearance but no other real pairings, hubert has a hard cold exterior beneath which he LONGS, it is frog dissection day at Garreg Mach!, it is literally just 15k of hurt/comfort held together by the loosest strands of plot, minor minor character death aka we bid farewell to one of Ferdinand's loyal steeds, then there is angst., this is the most self indulgent thing I have written, tw also for magical experimentation on animals aka frogs and mice, tw for mild self harm in the name of experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysKatie7/pseuds/AlwaysKatie7
Summary: Byleth announces to the class that she would like all of them to attempt casting a healing charm. Hubert's success at this exercise (or lack thereof) follows him through five long years of war and beyond.Or Hubert, who is so suited to tearing things down and leaving behind scars, must learn to patch things and people and perhaps evenhimselfback together again.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	A Healing Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all!
> 
> This is my first fanfic for Fire Emblem and, in fact, my first fanfic for any game. I have only played Crimson Flower so far (and am currently halfway through Verdant Wind) and by no means consider myself an expert on this world or its lore so please humor me if I got anything terribly wrong. Hubert is also probably far worse at faith magic than he actually is in game...so i took some liberties. I simply needed to write this because...I am enamored with them. Then it got away from me and here we are at 15k words. 
> 
> As it says in the tags, this is incredibly self-indulgent and is essentially three scenes I wanted to write strung together by the thinnest of motifs. It _is_ eventually Ferdibert but it takes a minute to get there and there is a lot of Hubert & Edelgard friendship in the meantime, because Hubert simply deserves love from every angle and in every form :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It had already been a grueling few weeks. For one, there were all the usual troubles of trying to organize a slaughter from within the mouth of the beast, which in this case included the brewing suspicions of several Imperial lords, including the senior Vestra, as well as an unfortunately close encounter at the Monastery in which Edelgard’s identity as the Flame Emperor had nearly been revealed. Still. These were problems Hubert was attuned to, problems he could handle. The untidy business between the Death Night and Flayn, however, fell into a separate category entirely. It had been a disaster, a downright messy affair filled to the brim with the very thing Hubert hated most…complications. Every night for the past week had been sleepless as he desperately tried to subdue the damage.

It was a task made significantly more difficult now that Seteth was keeping an excruciatingly close eye on the Black Eagle class, of which the rescued Flayn was suddenly a part. If it wasn’t Seteth bearing down, it was Manuela, who’d had the misfortune of being caught in the crosshairs and now was absolutely hell-bent on getting her revenge upon the Death Knight—a fact that she was making well known to anyone within a mile radius of the monastery. And, there was Monica. _Above all,_ there was Monica. The worst of his various nuisances, it was nearly impossible to shake her. She sat with them in the dining hall—for breakfast, lunch _and_ dinner. She walked with them to class. She insisted on training with Edelgard in the mornings. They were being spied on, only worse, because it couldn’t truly be considering spying if you knew exactly who was keeping tabs, and who they were reporting back to. No, they were being _babysat_ , like two petulant schoolchildren who had gone astray and needed to be guided back onto their rightful path. Reduced to pawns. It was as humiliating as it was infuriating.

In fact, Hubert von Vestra was just contemplating how his current situation could possibly get any worse, when on the second Friday of the Wyvern Moon, shortly before the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, the Professor announced that she would like all of them to try their hands at Faith.

The class reacted as they always did—instantaneously, loudly, and with a flare for the dramatic. Dorothea was the only one who seemed remotely enthusiastic. At the table to Hubert’s right, she broke into a wide smile at their assignment, her face smug with the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to exert herself in a lecture meant to teach them all something she herself was already proficient in. The smugness did little to mar her striking features, which somehow made it all the more irritating to behold.

To his left, Lindhart raised his head out of his arms to stare at the Professor in weary disbelief, before collapsing lifelessly back down onto his desk. “I should’ve napped instead of bothering to attend,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Caspar reached over to pat his friend’s shoulder sympathetically. Somewhere in the back, Bernadetta yelped, but that was at least a common occurrence, to be expected and therefore not of much concern.

To her absolute credit, Byleth did not even raise an eyebrow at these histrionics. “Actually Lindhart, I was hoping that, given your prowess on the subject, you and Dorothea both might help me today with instructing your classmates.” The look on her face as she said it was the same grating, deadpan smile that she’d worn both times she’d successfully managed to coercive Hubert into taking tea with her in the gardens. Lindhart and Dorothea groaned in unison, though Lindhart’s came out as more of half a grunt and half a snore. “We will be focusing only on the most basic spell for healing,” the professor continued, as if there had been no interruption at all, “After the events of last moon, I believe this is nothing short of essential. I can only imagine what more ferocious enemies we will have to face in the days to come.”

The mood throughout the room immediately darkened at her words, all of their minds undoubtedly drifting back to last moon’s mission. None of them were likely to forget the sight of little Flayn lying unconscious in the Death Knight’s immense shadow anytime soon, not even Hubert.

In the seat beside him, Edelgard stiffened, her eyes staring straight ahead, her expression blank. It was nothing that would be obvious to anyone else, just the slightest tension in her shoulders, the merest twitch in her stoic expression…but Hubert knew her better than most. _That was not your fault,_ he thought determinedly, wishing he could project the thought from his mind over to his Lady’s. It was the truth: Flayn’s kidnapping was an unfortunate misstep, nothing more. They had been wrong not to see something like it coming, and were already paying for it dearly; Not satisfied just with besting them, Arundel had worsened the blow by thrusting Monica upon them afterwards, to follow Edelgard around like a watchdog and report back her every move. It made Hubert’s toes curl, to know that he had unwittingly given the Agarthans a golden opportunity to wrap their fingers more tightly around his Lady’s throat. The same mistake would not be made twice.

Still, one glance at Edelgard was enough to show him that her own thoughts were more troubled than vengeful, formed out of guilt rather than anger. If Hubert were someone different, perhaps he might have offered up some small gesture of reassurance, reached beneath their shared desk and unclenched the girl’s fingers, even woven his hand through her own, however briefly, instead of just futilely projecting his thoughts at her. As it stood, Hubert was not nearly so bold. Just the thought of soiling Lady Edelgard’s skin with his own made his stomach churn. So instead he turned his attention back to the front of the room and allowed Byleth’s speech to wash over him like water. There was something infuriatingly soothing about her unadorned, even cadence, enveloping him in its easy distraction. “…Relying on our designated Healers to keep us standing long enough to see our battles through is incredibly risky,” Byleth was saying. “Lindhart and Dorothea cannot be everywhere at once. Knowing how to patch yourselves up a little, when you find yourselves alone or cornered, could very well be the difference between you living long enough to reach a proper medic, or dying out on the field.”

Caspar’s hand shot into the air—pointlessly so, as it happened, because he did not wait for Byleth’s permission before bleating out his unnecessary commentary to the class. “But Professor, it’s just a mock battle coming up, we’re only going up against the other houses. Nobody is going to _die.”_

Hubert had to concentrate had to choke back his snort. Caspar might not catch it, but Byleth would, and then he’d be dragged into yet another teatime and lectured on being more respectful of his peers. Still. It was just like Caspar to concern himself with utterly trivial matters such as the _Battle of the Eagle and the Lion_ , when the real war had already started brewing beneath them. At least Blyeth could _sense_ it, at least she wasn’t so utterly clueless as to not see that there was something more simmering beneath the surface of the Officer’s Academy, to know that Flayn’s kidnapping was not just the senseless act of some desperate vagabond but the playing of a hand, meant to evoke a response, prompt a reaction. A powder keg assembled as a reminder of just whom, exactly, held control of the box of matches.

Byleth alone seemed to understand this. For all of Hubert’s distrust of Rhea’s spontaneous new hire, the woman had at least proven herself to be perceptive, and an adept strategist besides. After several moons of her incessant coaching, he could not deny that the improvement amongst his classmates on the battlefield was remarkable. If the other houses hadn’t sensed it already, they would no doubt learn in the upcoming mock battle. He expected it would be an easy win for the Eagles, which, of course, shouldn’t—no, _didn’t_ —matter to him one way or another. What did it concern Hubert if the Black Eagles could hold their spears pointy end up, let alone whether they could winan inconsequential, frivolous school exercise? Still. It had not gone above his head that there had been subtle shifts in Lady Edelgard’s war plans as of late. Hidden away in her dormitory late in the evenings, finally free of Monica for the day, her quiet whispers about the future had begun to linger more and more over the possibility of their classmates following them into her war. Lady Edelgard’s voice always hitched a little as she said such things, stunted by hesitant, cloying, increasingly persistent _hope._

And so it went. If Edelgard didn’t want to write their peers off, neither must he. No, he simply had to start considering their…merits, few and far between though they may seem. If the Eagles _were_ to join in his Lady’s war, he would rather they come packaged neatly as battle-ready, trained-up soldiers, rather than the ragtag, lackluster bunch of misfits they so infuriatingly appeared.

Hubert told himself—repeatedly—that this was why a weight seemed to lift off his chest the first time Bernadetta didn’t have to be coaxed gently out of her room and onto the battlefield, to join the class on a mission (three moons ago). The lightness that had threatened to overtake him was only because of the undeniable fact that the girl was improving, and had therefore become a more useful unit in Edelgard’s growing army. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the warmth that seemed to flood through him, like the first sip of a freshly brewed vat of coffee in the morning, at the flash of fleeting determination, just the slightest sliver of confidence, that had flickered in Bernadetta’s eyes as she’d willingly joined them, her bow held steady in an untrembling hand.

He told himself, also, that his Lady’s greater cause was why he had smiled—s _miled!_ (even if it _was_ only the slightest quirk of the edges of his lips)—at the sight of Petra and Edelgard taking a walk through the monastery gardens together (two moons ago). As they’d circled between the paths of flowers, Petra had recited some of Brigid’s traditional poems, which she’d roughly translated from her mother tongue into the language of Fodlan, while Edelgard diligently corrected her speech. Hubert had observed from a nearby archway, and concluded that it could only be good for the future Adrestian Emperor to bond with the heir to the Brigid throne. Their relationship would be important after the unification of Fodlan, when it would benefit them greatly in trade and diplomacy. And if Petra, who spent every morning on the training grounds, could be persuaded to stay in Fodlan for the duration of the war, that was all the better. She would make a powerful ally. His pleasure had nothing to do, then, with the proud, clear, unhesitant way in which Petra had repeated her favorite poem for the entire class, to Caspar and Dorothea’s whooping cheers, two days later.

Edelgard’s war, Edelgard’s dreams, Edelgard’s version of the future: this was all that mattered to him. It was why Hubert followed Byleth’s instruction without comment. It was why he had finally agreed to sit with her for tea when she’d asked it of him (one moon ago). All because Byleth’s battle experience was useful, constructive to Adrestia’s strategic position, and not because her mere presence was enough to paint a rare smile over his Lady’s usually solemn features. Still…this?

In Hubert’s opinion, it was the woman’s most ridiculous notion yet.

He spared another glance at Edelgard, hoping to share a look of disdain with her over the Professor’s sudden shift in priorities. _Faith!_ Of all things. What was the _point_ when they had a perfectly good healer already amongst their number? And they had Dorothea besides, who was nearly as adept at Faith as Lindhart himself, to meet any additional demand.

Only, Edelgard did not meet his scoff with her own look of exasperation. She was too busy scribbling the words “Faith Training” onto the top of her notebook, and underlining it twice for good measure. Beneath it, she penned in “HEALING” in all caps, and boxed it in for added emphasis. She was ready to take _notes._ Hubert frowned, turning back to Byleth at the front of the classroom.

“For the time being, focus on learning to heal small cuts and bruises. Those of you who excel at a simple Heal charm might then consider adding white magic to your individual training rotations.” The Professor went on to describe the fundamentals of the spell, and instructed each of them to practice at their seats while she, Lindhart and Dorothea walked around correcting their techniques.

Soon after, they were put to work. “This is a waste of time,” Hubert murmured, having just failed for a fourth time to get the tendrils of faith magic to reach his fingertips. No matter how hard he focused, whatever small spark of Faith succeeded in flaring up inside him died out long before it managed to be of any _use_. It was a ludicrous art, faith magic, and what a preposterous suggestion it was from Byleth that they all should attempt to learn it.

“Hush,” Edlegard chastised from beside him. They were meant to be stitching up dead toads. One was arranged in front of each of them, sliced open through the belly, guts on display. Byleth had also equipped each of them with a small knife, to carefully cut the frog back open should they manage to patch it up well enough to try again. It should have been _easy_ , healing the slimy flesh of this tiny, inconsequential creature. But Edelgard had had no better luck than he, a failure she did not seem at all concerned by. “I’m going to ask the professor for her assistance,” she said cheerfully, standing up and leaving him alone at their table with the two dead toads. The beady dead eyes of his Lady’s seemed to judge him as he struggled again to cast the spell. What an utterly pointless way to spend an afternoon.

With Byleth distracted by Edelgard’s questions, Hubert took the opportunity to abandon practice and glance around at the others. At the table to the left, Caspar had somehow managed to seal up his toad, though his success undoubtedly had more to do with Lindhart hovering over him, guiding him through every movement, than it did Caspar’s natural talent. The boy seemed to think that one success was enough of an effort, and had quickly moved on to re-dissecting his frog, gleefully pointing out the creature’s various shriveled organs for Lindhart to name. In another corner, Dorothea had migrated over between Bernadetta and Petra, her hands carefully adjusting the positions of the other girls’ fingertips. Bernadetta at least seemed to have had some real success. Flayn, at the next table over, was having zero trouble whatsoever. _Of course_ she _wouldn’t struggle,_ Hubert silently scoffed. _Blasted faith._ This left only Ferdinand, who must be…

Beside him.

Hubert startled as the boy’s irritating voice chimed from his other side. He’d had the audacity to occupy Lady Edelgard’s abandoned seat, and was so closely examining her toad that his nose was practically up in its guts. “I see Edelgard has yet to triumph,” the arrogant bastard proclaimed, looking up from the carcass with smug satisfaction. “I have managed it twice now. Perhaps Faith magic will be yet another area in which I grow to surpass her!”

Hubert suddenly felt the strong urge to use Blyeth’s knife on something a little fleshier than a toad; Ferdinand’s forearm seemed like a satisfying option, if Edelgard wouldn’t let him go so far as to carve open his throat. He allowed himself a mirthless snort.

“There is _no_ area in which you will ever surpass Lady Edelgard, Aegir, because you remain her inferior in every regard. You are nothing. Now, if you would be so kind as to _leave_ ….”

]But Ferdinand was spared having to respond, as Edelgard choose that moment to reappear, forcing him to relinquish his hold on her chair. She seemed rather bubbly after her one-on-one with the professor. Taking quick appraisal, Hubert noted, and not without some level of alarm, that her cheeks were _flushed_ _pink_. She sat down and smiled over at Ferdinand, a smile that seemed bafflingly genuine, without even the slightest hint of her usual (quite well-justified) annoyance. Flames, what had gotten into her? “It’s impressive that you’ve managed it, Ferdinand,” she said happily, flicking back a lock of snowy hair that had escaped over one shoulder. “The professor says she doesn’t expect us all to be able to do it, but if even a few more can pick it up, the Black Eagles will be better off for it. It requires quite a bit of faith, doesn’t it? For that reason alone, perhaps I’ll never be able to manage it.” Her eyes flickered toward Hubert, alight with something like laughter glimmering in her irises. As if they were sharing an inside joke. Hubert blinked.

Even Ferdinand seemed taken aback by this sudden change in Edelgard’s usually curt tone. “Oh. Yes,” he stumbled out dumbly, clearly at a loss for what to say in the face of genuine compliments. It would probably be too _ignoble_ of him to continue to brag in the face of such civility. Instead he strutted back to his own desk, looking back at Edelgard only once with eyes lidded in confusion.

Hubert hummed his approval. “You’ve managed to silence the great and insufferable Ferdinand von Aegir _and_ send him on his way, I never thought I’d see the day.”

Edelgard simply rolled her eyes and turned back toward her toad. “Hush. It _is_ good if he can learn it,” she said, in a voice just slightly above a whisper. “The more skills we have on our side, the better.”

This time Hubert was the one stunned to silence. His eyes widened involuntarily, he turned to her in disdain. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting _Ferdinand von Aegir_ might join them in their crusade? The very thought was absurdity. Even with Edelgard beginning to talk more and more frequently about bringing the Black Eagles over to her cause, he was sure they’d agreed that Aegir, at least, should be written off as a wasted effort.

“Anyway,” Edelgard continued, ignoring his shock, “The professor said it would be best if at least half of us can learn it, and I was speaking truthfully when I told Ferdinand I’m a hopeless case. So I suppose you’ll just have to learn for the both of us.”

She said it teasingly, so he was pretty sure it wasn’t a command. He took it as one all the same, and turned back to his own test subject with renewed vigor. By the lesson’s close, he’d managed to heal the incision on his toad’s underbelly exactly once, and even then, he’d done a poor job of it. The skin around the cut was still mangled and raw, instead of fresh and seamless like Lindhart’s. Hubert glared at it in increasing frustration. The other students piled the slimy remains of their own toads into the bin beside Byleth’s desk as they filed out of the room. Hubert swooped his into his bag instead.

It took two weeks to master the smallest and most ineffective of healing spells. When the toad became irreparable, he was forced to resort to scooping up unsuspecting mice on their way to the kitchens and making short work of them later in his dorm room, the door firmly shut. At last, after weeks of sleepless nights consumed by trial and error, even his wispy, lackluster magic managed to knit the creatures’ flesh back into place so that there were not even raised ridges as reminders of the blades that had sliced them open. It was a small and insignificant victory; the mice were long dead. If the knife to their underbellies was meant to represent a lance in their sides on the battlefield, his wounded soldiers would have bled out long before reaching the medic’s tent. Still, it was something.

The next logical step would be graduating to larger animals, perhaps the foul dogs that sometimes nipped at Hubert’s heels on his walks to class, or else the stray cats that seemed to multiply by the day, presiding over the monastery everywhere from its smallest crevices to its tallest parapets. Edelgard, he remembered testily, liked to _feed_ them. He refrained.

In the dim light of his room at dusk, Hubert traced the thinnest of lines onto the pale flesh of his thigh with his sharpest of daggers. Crimson paint quickly colored the cut made by the blade, blood that congealed long before Hubert managed to erase the mark. It was _useless_.

Still, again he tried. He tried until he succeeded, and then he cut a little deeper. Each thin pathway carved by the knife was nothing, would be nothing, compared to a real wound, the sort that sliced not just through flesh but through muscle and sinew, stopping only at the bone. Lances and swords and axes and even gauntlets did not leave mere _cuts_.

He stared down at his marred skin, peppered with half-healed marks in ugly overlap. One—the freshest—was still bleeding profusely. He forced himself to think of the Goddess, nothing but the Goddess. This, unfortunately, was precisely his problem: the Goddess _was_ nothing. Hubert couldn’t even remember what she was supposed to look like, whom or what he was meant to envision. He felt as if were ten years old again, kneeling in front of a mirror while the stern governess hired by his much sterner father roughly corrected the fold of his hands and demanded that he recite Sothis’ Prayer to the heavens. Then he recalled an only slightly more recent time, and the dark laugh of his father as he’d told a marginally taller version of Hubert that perhaps, rather than futilely pursuing Edelgard and wasting his guards’ time, he should try _praying_ for her successful return.

The unpleasant warmth of active Faith never even reached his palms. Beneath his fingertips, the flesh of his thigh refused to stitch itself closed. The blood stained his skin a deep red.

It was the same, over and over again. The blade. A failed attempt at magic. Vulnerary. Repeat. Even children did better.

Two months passed before he finally threw in the towel and gave up the scheme completely, writing any companionable relationship between himself and white magic off for a lost cause. On his last try he’d cut too deep, and even the vulnerary made for a rather poor patch job. Beneath his breeches, the mark joined his other recent attempts, all of which still stung incessantly. Going to Manuela, of course, was downright out of the question, and going to Lindhart was too pathetic, though he knew the younger boy would be able to lace him back together in an instant, and probably diminish the brutish barrage of older scars as well. He was pretty certain the newest wound had become infected. The skin around the cut was raised and raw, yellowish with pus. Even if he were the best of bishops, it would take more than magic to heal it now. Infections required _medicine_ —more of it, he’d discovered, than that which a simply vulnerary potion could provide.

Instead of going to the infirmary, he circled around to the library instead, retreating to an ill-attended bookshelf and removing his favored volume: a plant encyclopedia that catalogued everything from the common to the nefarious. Hubert slunk over to the nearest armchair, a large velvet thing arranged in front the library’s roaring fireplace, and flipped to one of the book’s duller sections, a chapter on medicinal herbs.

His quiet perusal was interrupted, rather rudely, by the sound of the scrapping of a chair on the hardwood floor, a grating noise made all the worse when it was joined soon thereafter by that _insufferable voice_.

“Hubert!” Aegir chirped, settling his armchair down far too close to Hubert’s own, and plopping down into it with a weighty stack of books in his arms. “I wasn’t aware you studied at the library.”

Hubert was determined not to look up from his book. “Leave, please,” he clipped, thinking that the ‘please’ was quite frankly a courtesy Ferdinand did not deserve. Aegir was unaffected.

“You’ve occupied the sole armchair by the fire, you can hardly criticize me for wanting to keep warm.” He set his books down loudly at his feet, a sign that he was settling in. 

Hubert considered getting up and walking out, but that was just the kind of thing that would give Aegir a sense of satisfaction. He stayed put.

There was silence between them as Ferdinand shuffled through his books and chose a narrow volume with a dark green spine. The print was so small Hubert couldn’t discern the title from the corner of his eye. Not that he cared to know. He turned his focus back to the herbs and tried to ignore both the persistent stinging of his thigh and Ferdinand’s obnoxiously loud breathing. Both were impossible.

“That is quite the tome you have,” said Ferdinand conversationally, minutes later. He made a dramatic show of leaning over to read the spine. “ _Elnwick’s Exhaustive Guide to Botany_. Dare I ask who you are attempting to poison? Should I be watching my morning tea with caution?”

“If I were going to poison you, Aegir,” Hubert said slowly, as if explaining something simple to a very small child, “I would not do so in your morning cup, as you sit in the dining hall with a hundred witnesses. No. You’d be far better off watching the cups you secret away to your dormitory in the evenings, after your restless walks back from the stables.”

Ferdinand stilled, a slight frown tarnishing his bright features. “You seem to know my schedule quite well.”

“You are quite predictable.”

Ferdinand did not respond, turning back to his book instead, and in the resulting silence, at last, Hubert was able to locate what he was searching for, a page on soothing minor household cuts. 

He would have stayed for a little longer, if only to bask in Ferdinand’s unease (the boy kept shooting him suspicious looks over the top of his book) but his thigh really _was_ killing him. “If you’ll excuse me,” Hubert said briskly, snapping his book shut and sliding it into his bag. He stood and gave Aegir a final nod, which was quickly returned with one of equal aloofness.

He made it all of three steps towards the library’s entrance before turning back, lingering curiosity getting the better of him. “What, pray tell, is it that _you’re_ reading, then?” He nodded at the slender green volume in Ferdinand’s hands.

“Sorry?”

“You saw my book, now I am simply asking that you share yours.” His voice was laced with impatience, the usual annoyance at Aegir kicking in.

Ferdinand’s cheeks colored, alarming him nearly as much as how often Edelgard now blushed in class. “Oh. Um.” He flipped the book closed and held out the cover for Hubert to read. The gold lettering on the front was much larger than it was on the spine, and the fancy script was bold and unmistakable: _Fables and Fairytales of Fodlan._ Around the title, there were artful illustrations of unicorns, wyverns, and knights.

Hubert had expected it to be a book on old armor and weaponry or a political history of the nobility or any one of Ferdinand’s numerous, degenerate interests. Anything but _that._

“One can only study battle techniques for so long,” the boy said defensively, reopening the book to his current page. Hubert saw it for the poor attempt at nonchalance that it was, not missing that, half hidden behind the cover, Ferdinand’s face was flushed a bright red. 

After circling back to the greenhouse and siphoning the necessary herb off of the unsuspecting gardener, Hubert returned to his room and stripped down to his smalls, carefully arranging the leaves over his wounds, which seemed to have grown worse over the course of the day. The relief was almost instantaneous. The clump of greenery drained the pus and left his cuts looking several days old, and therefore much less startling. Hubert breathed a sigh of relief.

Who needed faith magic anyway?

 _Lady_ _Edelgard might,_ the persistent voice in the back of his mind nagged. It sounded suspiciously like Byleth in the middle of a lecture. Damn her.

But Edelgard _might_. The war would be long, and Edelgard would no doubt insist on personally seeing it through to its end. If the trained healers were themselves compromised, and he was the only one around, what would become of her?

His fingers traced the raised skin of his failed attempts, a lasting reminder of his inadequacy. _Then she will die,_ the cynical part of him concluded bluntly. Hubert could not— _must_ not—allow that to be her fate.

That evening, instead of slicing himself open again, he drafted up a plan to acquire more monks for the Empire’s war effort.

Then he expedited the order through to the highest ranks of the Imperial army, with a note about it being of utmost urgency.

He did not try his hand at Faith again.

Soon after, when the Minister of War informed Edelgard of the additional troops ready at her disposal, she did not even bat an eye. At least, not until the minister had departed, when she turned to Hubert and raised a single eyebrow at him, knowingly and almost playfully. He offered a slight shrug in return. Nothing more was said on the subject. Nothing else, really, was left to be said. Edelgard, Hubert knew, would never be one to make him voice his failures aloud.

* * *

The chaos and confusion of the battle raged steadily from Hubert’s every side. The heat was stifling; the noise, unbearable. There was nothing but the clang of steel hitting steal, the roar of overhead wyverns, and the distant, fading moans of dying men. The stench of blood and sweat and burning flesh was immense. Fire sparked up in patches across the entirety of the battlefield, casting an eerie glow over the faces of their enemies. In such a light, worshipers of the Goddess had a strange way of morphing into demons. _Ironic_ , Hubert thought idly, firing off another Miasma spell at an approaching Knight of Seiros, whose face twisted into a grotesque caricature when he collided with the spell…or perhaps it was not ironic at all. 

Just paces away from him, Edelgard swung her axe as smoothly as if were an iron extension of her arm, eliminating the few enemy soldiers who had managed to break through the line and approach her. These men had somehow succeeded in avoiding the charge of Imperial foot soldiers, the onslaught of arrows from above, and even Hubert’s own targeted spell casting. Hubert, therefore, felt more than a tinge of satisfaction as he watched his Lady ensure their swift elimination.

The rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force was scattered around the battlefield. None of them had abandoned Edelgard when the time came. Not one.

It had been four years now of constant war, and there was no still no end in sight.

Still, the end was inevitable. It would come. But before the war’s end, there must be an end to this particular battle. On this point, at least, they seemed to be approaching victory. By Hubert’s hasty calculations, the Imperial Army was still winning. For now.

Idly, he took out three more soldiers with a complicated Banshee Qcharm before they’d had the chance to strike at Edelgard. Any further thoughts beyond the battlefield were wiped from his mind at the force of the elements around him. There was nothing but the crackle of magic in the air and the rush of the persistent wind and the heat of the flames. And then there was Ferdinand von Aegir, a force of nature in his own right. 

The man emerged out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly, charging across the field directly into the enemy swarms, lance held high. When it came down to sheer recklessness, Ferdinand rivalled only Caspar.

Hubert glanced around himself once more. No one else seemed to have noticed the streak of brilliant orange. Edelgard was busy slicing through two enemy bishops at once. The rest of the Imperial soldiers did not turn away from the dance of their swords as they collided with the steel and brute force of the enemy.

Later, when asked what on earth had propelled him forward, Hubert would deny all feeling whatsoever; In the moment, he thought only, resoundingly, _No_. His feet were moving before he could register what moving them _meant_. By charging stupidly after Ferdinand von Aegir, he was leaving Lady Edelgard’s side, leaving her vulnerable. If the ridiculous man had a death wish, what was that to him? Lady Edelgard was the only one who mattered. 

Still, he _ran_.

By the time he reached Ferdinand, the brilliant-haired General rode in the center of a circle of corpses, each of which had been dealt an expertly lethal blow of Ferdinand’s lance. Still more soldiers were closing in on him, however, surrounding him from seemingly every side. _There were too many_. What had he been _thinking?_ Hubert shot off Mires at a rapid pace as he charged toward the fray. Ferdinand looked wildly around as the men fell, in search of the spells’ caster. By the time his eyes locked on Hubert, the final enemy soldier was only paces away. _Stupid, foolish man._ Hubert opened his mouth to scream at Ferdinand to _pay attention, damn it_ , but he was too late. The soldier had seen his opportunity, and made a wild stab at Ferdinand’s horse, landing the blow right between the creature’s ribs. The mare let out a maddening cry and began to buck wildly. Hubert fired a Miasma directly at the soldier’s heart, just before he had the chance to swing his sword around and stab the horse’s rider as well. Then he made a great surge forward just as Ferdinand was forced to slide down from the injured animal’s back—

“HUBERT!”

The warning pierced through him like an arrow, and then he was on his backside, and there was an enormous weight upon him, forcing him to stay down. Something unpleasant stabbed into his arm. All around him time seemed to slow.

Hubert blinked. He opened his eyes. There was something sticky seeping through his battle uniform, a substance he rapidly identified as blood. It took a moment longer for him to register that it was not his own.

The weight atop him was a gasping, breathless Ferdinand, the force pressing into his arm, the other man’s armor. Hubert blinked for a second time, as if shutting and reopening his eyes would be enough to bring some clarity to the situation. The battle seemed to have moved on around them, leaving them in an almost-clearing where the sound of the fight had dimmed, the frontline pushed further afield. _Towards Edelgard,_ Hubert thought frantically, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was too far away now to be of any help.

A shuddering wheeze sounded from his left side. Hubert craned his neck around to find his would-be-attacker, the last of Church’s men, dying from a bubbling wound in his chest. It was not a clean hit, and the man died slowly, groaning and struggling for life even as it slipped irreparably out of his grasp. Ferdinand drew himself up long enough to put the soldier out of his misery, then immediately collapsed back down, this time beside Hubert instead of on top of him, sputtering. Hubert did not have much time to appreciate being freed from the weight of the other man’s armor. It was quickly becoming obvious why there was no weapon in sight beside the dying Seiros’ knight: the enemy’s lance was lodged neatly into the flesh of Ferdinand’s thigh. _Ah_. So that would explain the blood.

“What on the Goddess’ green _earth_ —”

“—were you _thinking_?”

“Absolutely foolish—”

“—utterly reckless, completely inexcusable!”

Ferdinand let out a throaty laugh that turned into a deep grunt of pain halfway through. The helplessness in the noise was enough to set Hubert in motion again at last. He struggled to a seated position, looking down at the sweat and dirt streaked face of Ferdinand von Aegir. “It is just like you,” Ferdinand grumbled, “to chastise the man who just saved your skin.”

“ _You_ saved _me?_ As I recall, it wasn’t me who charged needlessly into a circle of Seiros knights! Or am I misremembering you singlehandedly trying to fend off about six of them by yourself?”

“—as the seventh made a more than adequate attempt at stabbing _you_ when you ran in blindly!” Ferdinand gesticulated angrily, gesturing at the weapon still lodged in his leg. The pain had to be great, because Ferdinand’s voice was strained and soft despite his anger, so different from the boisterous, determined way it normally sounded whenever he’d riled himself up about something.

_Ah._

Hubert swallowed down the rising lump in his throat.

He was far too exhausted to do more than crawl the few feet to Ferdinand’s form and prop himself up to examine the other man’s wound. The lance had sliced open Ferdinand’s inner thigh, and it seemed quite deep. There was also a steady loss of blood, and red muscle exposed to the open air, the same deep color as the blood that surrounded it. “We must get you to Lindhart or Manuela,” Hubert said dumbly, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Just. Pull it out. Please,” Ferdinand grunted, gritting his teeth. Hubert hesitated. “You must. I cannot move like this.” So Hubert took hold of the lance’s hilt and gave a sharp tug.

The sound that left the other man’s lips was practically inhuman. His shoulders gave a great spasm before he slumped back down into the dirt. The tip of the lance came out covered in bits of muscle and mangled flesh. For the first time ever, the sight of so much gore had Hubert feeling nauseous.

They were much too far from their base to warp back to the hastily constructed medic tent on the edge of the battlefield, where Manuela would be waiting, and even if they weren’t, it would be too dangerous given Ferdinand’s current condition. Hubert stared down at the injured man hopelessly. His eyes were shut tightly with the pain. Hubert had never noticed how long his eyelashes were, so light you had to be right up close to see them at all. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat and blood that was just as likely to be his own as someone else’s. Beneath all this muck, a few scattered freckles dotted Ferdinand’s long nose. Orange, wild waves encircled his head like a halo, dimmed only by patches of deep, clotted crimson. Ferdinand had let his hair grow untamable. It fell well below his shoulders now, and was rather poorly looked after. He hadn’t even bothered to pull it off his face for the fight.

He was impossibly beautiful, even in this state.

Hubert immediately pushed _that_ thought aside into his “deal with later” category, which in practice meant to “never to be lingered over again.” _Focus, you idiot._

Ferdinand let out another loan moan, mingling in the air with the dreadful noises of his collapsed horse. The wound still bled profusely. It was too much blood loss, and Hubert could feel himself growing frantic. How on earth would he get Ferdinand back like this? The only other option, of course, was to wait for someone to come find _them_. Surely by now the battle was winding to its inevitable end. One way or another, they would be discovered here eventually. He could only hope that it was Edelgard’s men, and not the Church’s, who did the discovering.

Even so, he was not certain Ferdinand would last long enough to find out, not without some semblance of immediate attention. Anxiously, Hubert tore a length of cloth from his own uniform and pressed it into the gash, desperate to stop the blood flow. It was futile; the black fabric only grew wet and thick with it. Ferdinand’s moans were growing softer now, and Hubert suspected he was close to passing out. He might know next to nothing about medicine, but even he did not need Manuela there to tell him that wouldn’t be a good thing. “Keep talking, Ferdinand,” he instructed harshly. “I will—I will try to heal you a little.”

Hubert’s soiled hands hovered above Ferdinand’s thigh. His overuse of Reason in the last few hours of intense fighting had left his fingers trembling and weak. His soiled leather gloves covered skin that Hubert knew to be raw and black, the dark magic still tingling just below the surface. He did not have the energy left for this. He was not even sure he could manage it were he at full capacity. How many years had it been since he had last tried? Here he was, wrung dry and reduced to the aftershocks of too much magic, and his poor efforts were to be their only option. He had no choice but to succeed.

A gentle, calloused touch brushed his outstretched wrist, the bare hand flickering over the exposed skin just above the top of his glove but below the edge of his shirtsleeve. “Wait,” Ferdinand whispered, “Do Clio first.”

Hubert’s hand stilled. When he spoke, he could not keep the anger out his voice. “You would have me heal your _horse_ while you bleed out three paces away?” It was so typically Ferdinand that it made him want to scream.

“Please, Hubert.”

Against his every urge, he spared a glance at the creature, sprawled out amidst the dead men, its light gray coat matted dark with blood and waste and death. One look told him all he needed to know; the animal was beyond repair. Entrails piled out from its wound. The brutish noises it made as it died were familiar to anyone who had known war as intimately as they had, yet it seemed worse in the stillness of this particular clearing, when the rest of the fight had moved beyond them. He turned back to Ferdinand, whose eyes bore imploringly into his own.

“I cannot,” he said, as gently as he could. It was not a lie. “I don’t have the energy to Heal both of you, quite frankly I am not sure I will even be able to manage one.” That was not a lie, either.

“Do her then,” said Ferdinand without hesitation, his voice notching onto the last of his strength, coming out stubborn and demanding and _damn him_. To throw his own life away for the sake of a horse, as if he were nothing!

_“No.”_

“Then I will do it myself!” A sudden rush of adrenaline, fueled, perhaps, by his desperation, somehow brought Ferdinand to a seated position, and his hands reached out, bolding dragging himself forward towards his horse’s moans. He made it barely three feet before he’d exhausted himself and was forced to collapse back down. It was far enough, at least, for him to have gotten a last look at his beloved mare. Tear tracks broke through the filth coated onto Ferdinand’s face, trailing thin paths down his cheeks. He raised a hand and pounded the ground repeatedly in frustration.

Hubert’s heart clenched. “Do not look,” he said softly, raising a gloved hand to Ferdinand’s cheek and tilting his head away from the dying animal. Quickly, he grabbed the discarded lance and wiped the tip clean on his own tunic. Then he made his way shakily over to the horse. It took only one swift, accurate blow for the animal’s moans to cease. Then he dropped the lance and returned to Ferdinand’s side, where he set to work tearing the ruined cloth of Ferdinand’s breeches further into shreds to expose his own wound more clearly. The jagged line of the damnable weapon’s path was startling. It was not a clean slice, and the blade seemed to have pierced even deeper than he had initially feared. Hubert clenched his eyes closed and desperately tried to convince himself that it was but a thin cut, made with a sharpened dagger on his own pale skin, late at night in his monastery dorm room. He could do this. Perhaps once he was finished, he and Ferdinand would have matching scars.

He kept his eyes shut and channeled everything he knew about white magic into his fingertips, willing the faith to bubble up beneath his skin.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Wasn’t that what his entire life boiled down to? A long series of failures and the relentless and frustrating toil of trying again. “Keep talking,” he reminded Ferdinand, whose eyes were once again starting to droop. The man, for once, obliged him without complaint.

“You left Edelgard’s side to follow me,” he whispered softly. Hubert felt the tightness coil again in his chest. “Why…why would you do that?”

“Because you refuse to bloody well look after yourself,” snapped Hubert, his fingers shaking.

There was a long pause. Hubert, concentrating hard, finally felt a tinge of weightless magic flow through him like water. “Ah. So you and Edelgard still do not trust in my abilities” The simmering magic instantly died. If he had known Ferdinand was going to be _this_ inane, he’d have let him pass out after all.

“I wasn’t aware those were the words I used,” Hubert retorted, frustrated. But Ferdinand simply hummed.

He tried the spell again. The gaping wound began to suture together, but Hubert couldn’t muster the energy to see it through. His contact broke, and the flow of magic instantly ceased along with it. Ferdinand’s injury was hardly the better for it.

“You are trying too hard,” Ferdinand said simply. It was just like him, to be offering advice from his deathbed. Ferdinand, however, did not seem in the least bit concerned that he might die. His eyes had not strayed away from the spot where his horse lay dead, his expression numb.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert seethed, “I recognize that you are somewhat daft, but I did not think it would be necessary to explain even to you, mid-battle during a war _against the Church_ that _I_ helped to orchestrate, that faith-based magic is not exactly an area of expertise for me.”

Ferdinand, at last, cut his gaze away from his horse to look directly at Hubert instead. His eyes really were vivid; the color of the golden sun, shortly before it began its daily descent below the horizon. There was a steel and a softness both in those amber irises, each fighting for dominance. “You do not have to have faith in the _Goddess_ for the spell to work. Surely you believe in _something._ ”

What did he believe in? There was certainly no religion to which he adhered. Hubert did not believe in divine powers or merciful gods or a life beyond the veil. Still. There was something to which he had given his life. More accurately, some _one._ And her vision of the future was something that he believed in wholeheartedly. If that wasn’t faith what was? “Edelgard,” he murmured. Beside him, Ferdinand rolled his eyes.

“Get on with it, please,” he groaned, “I am not growing any stronger whilst you have your little epiphanies.”

Hubert folded his hands over Ferdinand’s wound, in a mockery of prayer. He shut his eyes and focused on the world to come.

And the wound began to heal.

Not entirely. Indeed, not _well_. It was, in fact, several attempts before he’d managed to stitch together the length of the damage. Even then, Ferdinand would still need to see a healer. There were no doubt internal injuries that Hubert’s rudimentary magic had failed to address. Even so, it was enough. As soon as the job was done Hubert slumped down beside Ferdinand, exhausted, and shut his eyes at last.

“Thank you, Hubert,” Ferdinand breathed.

“It was a one time thing, Aegir. Do not make a habit of jumping in front of lances for me.”

“Then do not make a habit of giving me reason to.”

Hubert rolled his eyes and stared up at the darkening sky. If there was one infuriating trait that both Ferdinand and Edelgard shared, he thought distantly, it was their insistence on having the last word.

* * *

He and Edelgard waited at the edge of the woods, hidden in the shadows, and Hubert knew it was obvious that he was panicking but he was doing his utmost best to hide it in the presence of his Emperor.

If he were in his regular state of mind, Hubert would be appalled that Edelgard was there at all, forced to crouch with him in the muck and the darkness. If he were in his regular state of mind, he would never have allowed her calloused, slender fingers to reach out and brace his own in the way that they now did.

  
But he was not in his regular state of mind. Hubert gripped her hands like a vice and tried to use them to pull himself back from the rough edges of his thoughts. He was, in truth, incredibly grateful that she’d insisted on coming along.

“ _I am not going to allow you to conduct a rescue mission for_ my _Prime Minister without my assistance.”_

_“Your majesty…”_

_“Hubert, I_ will _be coming with you. The others will want to come too, I imagine. Please tell the stables to ready enough horses for the entire Strike Force. That will be all.”_

He had somehow managed to drag all of them into a shadow war that was only ever meant to be his own. A burden meant only for him, and yet…. First Ferdinand. Now the others.

Just outside the boundaries of their forest overlook, the rest of the Strike Force fought alongside his mages, attempting to break through the Slitherer’s latest stronghold. Hubert wished he could be down amongst them on the field, but he and his spies had agreed that it would be far too risky. Arundel’s men were surely trained to expect him. At the first hint of his arrival they could warp Ferdinand away, which was something that he absolutely refused to risk; it had taken so long to locate him in the first place. So Hubert waited. He waited and hoped that his conspicuous absence from the battlefield was enough to confuse the ones who slithered in the dark, trick them into believing that he was somewhere else, still out searching, that though a small band of his men may have stumbled upon this particular stronghold, they had not yet realized what that stronghold concealed. He just needed to wait long enough for the enemy to be drawn out from below ground and distracted long enough for him to break through and search the dungeons. He swallowed back a wave of bile.

Edelgard had downright insisted on staying behind the lines with him. He had allowed it because it meant she would be less exposed to the fighting. He was not sure it had been the best move, all the same. Then her grip tightened and her gentle voice broke through the wall formed by his thoughts. “Breathe, Hubert,” she said softly. “We will find him and all will be well.”

“But it is _my_ fault that they took him,” Hubert bit out, avoiding looking at her, immediately embarrassed that he had said it at all.

Edelgard sighed, twisting a lock of pearly hair out from her horns. “I can see that it would be useless to attempt to convince you otherwise. Still, I’d be a poor companion if I didn’t try, so let me say this: while it may be true that Ferdinand was targeted in an attempt to get to you, that does _not_ —no, listen to me—that does _not_ mean that you were at fault for his capture. They are two very different things, Hubert. You cannot blame yourself for loving him—”

 _“Love?”_ Hubert tried to sound incredulous at her implications, but his voice came out weak and fickle, an easy tell.

Edelgard released his hands in frustration, and he immediately regretted his pushback, feeling their absence as a great emptiness. “Oh, Hubert. You pretend to care for nobody and nothing but don’t you think I know you better than that? Or have you forgotten that I am your oldest, and, I should hope, dearest friend? I wish, for _once_ , that you would allow me to comfort you as you have comfort—” She stopped, looking over at him with widening eyes. Hubert was _crying_.

He could not seem to quench the flow of silent tears, no matter how furiously he swiped at his cheeks. Edelgard silently reached into her cloak and produced a crumpled handkerchief, holding it out to him. He accepted it hastily, trying to ignore the humiliation of looking so vulnerable, _now_ of all moments _._ He had never cried in front of her before. Not in the five long years of the war of reunification, and not after. Until, apparently, now.

Ferdinand had been taken over three weeks ago, snatched out his bed before Hubert was any the wiser. By the time he had been notified of the breech and warped himself as quickly as he could to the Prime Minister’s chambers, the man was gone, leaving behind only crumbled bed sheets, two dead guardsmen, and a few specks of blood as signs that he had put up a fight. Of course he had. Even weaponless and hazy with sleep, Ferdinand would never be taken quietly.

Hubert would never forgive himself. He should have known a few magical wards and two guards stationed at every Crestbearers’ chambers would not be enough to prevent the likes of Arundel from taking what he felt he deserved. He had had conversations about it with Ferdinand himself, over their usual tea and coffee breaks. Strategies to better protect the members of the Strike Force who were most at risk, those with crests who might be useful to the Slitherers not merely as hostages but also as test subjects, were discussed and dissected and argued over in hushed tones. Then, before he had had time to fully enact any of the precautions, this.

What could they have done to him in the course of three weeks? Hubert had little doubt that they had kept him alive. They would not want to give up so valuable a pawn in their games. It was but a minor solace. Hubert was no stranger to their capabilities. He had known Edelgard’s siblings’ ends; there was no need to remind him of fates that went beyond death. He was all to aware that the Slitherers enjoyed playing with their food before they ate it.

Edelgard pulled him onto her shoulder and ran a slender hand through his oily hair. When was the last time he had washed it? It had been difficult to manage such things while Ferdinand’s life hung in the balance. For one he had been preoccupied with working around the clock, first to identify the location of the Agarthan stronghold in which Ferdinand was being held and then to devise a feasible plan of gaining access to it. Once, Bernadetta had stormed into his chambers and demanded, with surprising ferocity, that he get some sleep, but even then he had only taken a short nap, the minimum amount necessary to appease her. He was, in a word, exhausted.

“Perhaps,” he whispered, the words hollow, stilted, unnatural, “Perhaps I do feel something towards him akin to…akin to love.”

Edelgard’s hand stilled in his hair. His reward for the confession was her broad grin. “Of course,” he quickly amended, “I do not expect Ferdinand to feel the same.”

Edelgard’s smile immediately dissipated, replaced by exasperation. “You’re kidding?”

“What?”

“Hubert, I do love you, but you can be downright impossible. Your affections have been obvious to all of us for months. Ferdinand…well, I think he would very much like to know how you feel!”

“Ridiculous,” Hubert muttered, unable to meet her eyes. Suddenly he was very interested in folding the handkerchief she had passed him into the smallest triangle possible.  
  


“Do you remember you gave me that?” Edelgard said, nodding at the wisp of fabric. Hubert started, tilting his head to look over at her. It was such an abrupt change in conversation.

“I did?”

The trace of a smile flickered across Edelgard’s face. “Yes, you did. It was—oh—five years ago? Back when the professor was still…away.”

Ah. So maybe not a change of subject, after all. He should have known it was far too good to be true.

“You found me sobbing one morning all alone,” Edelgard continued, “And you told me Byleth was still out there, that we’d find her, and all would be well. I didn’t believe you. But then, four years later, you ended up being right.”

“I didn’t think I would be,” he admitted dispiritedly, “I was only trying to soothe you.”

“Well, I may be trying to soothe you now, but I also _am_ right about this. Ferdinand will be okay, and it will not be four years from now, but tonight. And when we do find him, I would like it very much if you would allow yourself some happiness.” 

Before Hubert could respond, there came the roar of a Wyvern as it circled back around overhead, once, twice, flying low enough that the creature’s wings beat down on the tops of the trees. Hubert immediately tossed the handkerchief aside. That was Petra with their signal. He all but bounded to his feet, Edelgard right beside him, grabbing for her axe. Together they stepped out from the cover of the trees.

The fight had thinned and moved south, and it was fairly easy to slip through the remaining combat unnoticed, stepping over dead Agarthans along the way. In the distance, Hubert could hear Caspar’s familiar battle cries. Petra’s wyvern still soared overhead. It was strangely comforting to know they were all here with him on this impossible mission. When asked, they had followed him without question. Hubert could never have imagined that in choosing to follow Edelgard they might come to follow him, too. _Friendship._ It seemed an all too foreign concept sometimes, even now. 

At the entrance to the cave, Hubert took two lingering guards by surprise with a sudden Mire, while Edelgard cut down the third. Inside, the structure was quite empty. Most of the Slitherers had indeed been drawn out into the fight. Moving their fingers along the rough walls for balance, Hubert and Edelgard edged forward, stopping after reaching a rough hemmed stone staircase. Hubert began the descent immediately. They had no reason to linger, and every reason to press on.

The cave was a relatively small structure, tucked away inconspicuously into the mountainside. It was not the sort of place to keep a high-value prisoner such as the Prime Minister of Fodlan. Still, Hubert was certain he was there. His informants had never failed him, and this time they had mutually surmised that Ferdinand had been taken to one of the least strategically significant Agarthan hideouts as an intentional move, meant to throw any pursuers off their course. A holding of this size wouldn’t take much to defend, but based on the length of the fight, which still resounded from above, it was obvious that the stronghold was heavily guarded, and not by low-ranking personnel but skilled mages. It was all the more proof: He was here.

Reaching the lower level, they passed a room taken up by a vast iron operating table with leather straps in place to hold down its victims and a wall of questionable looking equipment beyond it. When he stumbled over a lose stone, Edelgard reached for his hand and determinedly led him forward, as they moved beyond the room and descended down a short ramp into a cavern even further below ground.

They emerged into a sort of dungeon, dank and cold and generally unpleasant. The stench was overwhelming. Carved into the stone walls of the cave were cells with locked iron gates, most of them empty. All but the last.

Hubert cast a simple spell for light, its globe swirling in his palm and illuminating the cell. A bundle of limbs in the farthest corner stirred at the bright intrusion, keeling away from the light. Even matted nearly brown with filth, Hubert would recognize that mess of hair anywhere. Despite the distance still between them, he searched frantically for any signs of white amidst the orange.

Beside him, Edelgard visibly froze. It was, Hubert imagined, one thing to know exactly what you would be walking into and still another to actually be there walking into it. Edelgard had plenty of her own memories of confinement, which she carried around as her constant companions, to make this a difficult rescue for her. “I’ll go find Lindhart,” she said quietly. She squeezed his hand one last time in reassurance before dropping it. When she turned to leave, Hubert made no attempt to stop her.

“Ferdinand?” he called quietly, opening the cell door by force and moving resolutely toward the hunched figure of Ferdinand von Aegir in the corner. The man’s shoulders were trembling. It seemed to get worse the closer Hubert got. When he reached out a hand to graze tentatively over his back, Ferdinand reacted instantly, jerking his arms up and over his head in defense, like a cornered animal. _Frightened_ of him.

“It is _me,_ ” Hubert said, the word tinged with more than a hint of desperation.

Ferdinand still did not drop his hands. “Then tell me our word,” he breathed, the words barely audible to Hubert’s ears.

They had agreed upon it over a year ago, before the war had ended. Shortly after their tea and coffee breaks had moved from a once a week occurrence, to twice a week and then to every other day, so long as the opportunity provided. They had been sitting in the garden, sharing a plate of Byleth’s tea biscuits and sipping their preferred hot beverages when Ferdinand had suggested it.

_“We should come up with a safe word.”_

_Hubert nearly choked on his coffee. “A…what?”_

_“A safe word, in the event one of us is captured by the enemy. If I am taken by Kingdom forces, for instance, and held as prisoner until Edelgard’s victory, how will you know it is really me upon our reunion?”_

_“A ridiculous notion. You are unmistakable, Ferdinand.”_

_“Even if it was someone else wearing my skin?” he pressed._

_Hubert didn’t bother to remind Ferdinand that_ they _were the ones so unfortunately aligned with those who held such a power, not Dimitri. “Yes,” he said instead. “I would still know. Were it not your appearance that gave you away, I could tell by your stubbornness, your arrogance, your nagging, and worst of all, your incessant optimism. Even in the Kingdom dungeons, you would likely greet me with a smile and a congratulations on the Empire’s well-fought victory.” Ferdinand_ blushed. _Or perhaps Hubert had simply imagined it. Either way, it was enough to make him relent to Ferdinand’s prodding. “Still…if it will ease your mind. What shall it be?”_

_“Something only you and I would know. What is something you have told no one else?”_

_Hubert blanched. There were certainly things_. _Plenty of them. It was the very essence of his line of work to keep information close to his chest, hidden away. Things he had seen and done and thought and had never conveyed, not even to Lady Edelgard. He was not about to tell them to_ Ferdinand von Aegir, _of all people._

_Ferdinand did not seem surprised by this. “Fine,” the man continued, nonplused, “We will use one of my stories, then. How about the name of my first horse?”_

_“I thought the point was for it to be something you have shared with no one else, Ferdinand,” Hubert sighed, exasperated. Clearly Ferdinand had no concept of even basic espionage. “An enemy could learn that information as quickly as it takes to travel to the stables on the Aegir estate. Not to mention that I know for a fact you blathered on about it to all of our peers at Garreg Mach. The entire Kingdom must know by now.”_

_Ferdinand merely grinned at him. “Very funny, Vestra. True, I take great pride in my horses. But while it is indeed so that I have made the story of being gifted Persephone on my 8 thbirthday well-known, she was _not _, in fact, the first of my steeds.”_

_“Oh?” said Hubert in amusement, taking a long sip of his beverage and waiting for Ferdinand to continue._

_“Yes. I—erm,” he flushed pink with embarrassment, looking down at his empty teacup. “When I was very young, my father would not allow me to learn how to ride, preferring that I prioritize nobler pursuits, in preparation for my role as his heir. So, I imagined up a horse of my own—a pony, really—small enough and gentle enough for even me to ride, with a gorgeous yellow mane. I used to pretend him and I would run away together, and I named him—”_

“Daffodil.” Named after the flowers covering the meadow on the Aegir estate, where Ferdinand had spent so many hours as a boy, lonely and alone.

Only then did Ferdinand’s hands finally drop. He let out a choking sob. _“You came,”_ he whispered, so softly Hubert almost missed it. It was a cry, a whimper. Hubert fell to his knees and drew the man closer, trying to be gentle. Still, the slightest of movements seemed to cause Ferdinand pain. Hubert tried to pull back, but Ferdinand just scooted closer, leaning into him slowly, each twist of a limb causing a sharp intake of breath.

There were no chains tying him to the cell walls, as Hubert had anticipated and feared. Somehow, however, it was just as bad knowing that the Agarthans felt no need to chain their prisoners. It meant only that they had rendered escape impossible in other ways. It did not take long to notice the signs of it written all across Ferdinand’s body, like a perverse tapestry. Three weeks since his disappearance, and already Ferdinand seemed physically _diminished_ in Hubert’s arms. Where so recently there had been sculpted muscle and toned limbs, now there was only frailness and deprivation. The man wore only an oversized shirt, like a makeshift hospital gown, and peppered down his right arm were countless needle pricks and bruises in various stages of healing. Hubert did not have to examine each of them individually to know that his other limbs spoke a similar language. He tried not to think about the wounds hidden by the shirt, or the wounds one couldn’t see at all.

“Forgive me,” Ferdinand whispered, “If I am not as optimistic upon you finding me in such a state as you had once predicted.”

Hubert shook his head, a trembling hand reaching up to rest in Ferdinand’s unkempt hair. _Foolish man._ “I am the one who needs forgiving. I am only sorry that it took so long,” he returned.

“On the contrary, dear Hubert, you are right on time. I-I fear I would not have lasted much longer. It is just like you to find a way to save me.” The two corners of Ferdinand’s mouth quirked up into the slightest of smiles. It disappeared a moment later, replaced by a grunt of pain.

It was impossible to say how far the Agarthans had gotten in the process of their experimentation. Ferdinand seemed incredibly weak, but as far as Hubert could tell there were no white strands in his hair as an obvious sign that the Slitherers had attempted a Crest transplantation. Still, the number of needle marks was disconcerting. He thought back to the iron operating table a floor above and grimaced. How many times had Ferdinand been strapped down into it? The man in question closed his eyes as another wave of pain hit him, his body clenching against Hubert’s. Hubert was horrified to note the tears that broke free from the corners of Ferdinand’s eyes. As Hubert began to rock him, ever so gently, he let out a soft whimper.

Ferdinand seemed to have exhausted his energy for conversation. When the current convulsion of pain finally ceased, he lay limb in Hubert’s grasp, seeming to flicker in and out of consciousness. Hubert kept glancing toward the door for any sign of Edelgard’s return with Lindhart. It had been stupid not to bring a healer down here from the beginning. If Lindhart was needed in the field, he could have at least brought Dorothea. But it was too late now. They would simply have to wait it out.

But when Ferdinand began to tremble again, Hubert grew tired of waiting. He raised a hand to Ferdinand’s burning forehead and channeled faith.

Ever since that day during the war, when Ferdinand had been gravely injured for jumping in front of a lance meant for Hubert, Hubert had begun to add faith back into his training repertoire. He was still far from skilled at the subject, but he had grown better over time, adequate, at least, with very basic healing charms.

It helped, he had come to realize, to have faith in more than one thing. The magic grew stronger, and therefore more effective, as long as the faith persisted. This time, Hubert put everything he could into it, thinking of Edelgard in her crown and the Strike Force toasting one another the night the first war had been won and the elusive future was finally, finally within their grasp. He thought, also, most of all, of the man before him. His fiery voice in cabinet meetings and the broad smile he wore whenever Hubert brewed him cups of his favorite teas. It was much easier than Hubert had once thought, to have faith in other people.

The magic pooled in Hubert’s hand, and he gently touched his skin to Ferdinand’s. The man let out a sigh of relief when the coolness of the magic rushed into him. It wouldn’t do much, but it would ease Ferdinand’s fever a little, make him more comfortable while they waited. When Ferdinand’s eyes once again flickered shut, Hubert raised one of his bruised forearms and drew it closer for a better look.   


He sucked in a breath. The normally smooth, blemish free surface of Ferdinand’s inner arm was unrecognizable. The needle marks that peppered the outer forearm were so much worse here. The skin was inflamed and swollen. In the spots where the straps of the operating table must have been secured ran dark lines of deep blue and purple, a bruise of gross proportions. Hubert raised his hand to summon magic again, but Ferdinand’s voice trailed up to stop him. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Lindhart will want to see. For his research.”

Hubert baulked at that. “You are not a test subject,” he growled, resolutely returning his hand to Ferdinand’s arm. Ferdinand’s other hand came up to encase his own, though it cost the man yet another moan of pain for the effort.

“Too late for that, Hubie.”

 _Hubie._ No one called him that except for Dorothea, and he always hated it when she said it, which was often. It was such a ridiculous nickname.

Somehow he thought he could get used to it on Ferdinand’s lips.

_Oh goddess, Hubert, focus._

“The truth is,” Ferdinand continued, finding his voice again, “I do not know… That is, I am unsure… I would like to know what they’ve done to me,” he finished weakly.

Hubert dropped his hand, sucking in a column of air. “Very well. We will wait for Lindhart,” he said slowly. His mind was swimming with a million questions, but it seemed impossible to voice them, more than a bit because he was rather scared of knowing the answers.

Ferdinand looked up at him, his eyes calculating, accessing. Then he lifted up the edge of his shirt, revealing a series of harsh looking incisions on his stomach, all along his ribcage. They were in various stages of healing, each methodically stitched closed. “I am not sure what the ultimate intent was,” he softly admitted, “I was unconscious for most of it, but I imagine they were trying to expand on what they learned from Edelgard.”

Hubert, speechless, traced a narrow finger along one of the abrasions. “I should have found you sooner,” he repeated darkly, his mind already spinning with the various ways he could make the Slitherers pay, each method more sinister than the last.

Ferdinand merely _laughed_ , a diminished noise that quickly turned into a groan. “I _have_ missed you.”

He said it so sincerely, so _simply_ , like it cost him nothing at all to admit it, that it was enough to pull Hubert away from the pools of blood and torturous screams he was relishing in his mind. He dropped his hand away from Ferdinand’s skin as though it had burned him.

Edelgard’s voice trickled back to him: _Ferdinand would like to know how you feel._ It would be insanity to admit that he loved him _here_ , in this sorry dungeon where the man who held his affections sat before him tortured and tormented; it was madness to even consider it. Still, something compelled him forward. Perhaps it was the fear that if he didn’t do it now, he’d never again work up the nerve. “Ferdinand— _Ferdie_ —I—”

He was interrupted by the pattering of loud footsteps on the stone stairs, and the opportunity was over. Before he could get another word out, they were _engulfed_ , quite literally, by the entirety of the Black Eagle Strike Force, following quickly on the heels of Edelgard herself. “I found Lindhart,” she announced, rather unnecessarily. “Then the others insisted on coming along. It’s over.”

Hubert glanced briefly around at them. Bernadetta was nursing a twisted elbow and Caspar had a black eye, but they seemed otherwise unharmed. The surprise ambush had worked. Satisfied at their survival prospects, he immediately returned his attention to Ferdinand, who was flinching away from the influx of noise.

 _“Ferdie!”_ Dorothea screeched, rushing forward and crumbling onto the ground beside him, immediately pressing a narrow hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up, poor thing. Hubie, did you not even bother to give him a vulnerary? I thought you could manage that much,” she scolded. Personally, Hubert thought that was a bit harsh, when he had spent the past twenty minutes doing everything in his power to help the man, and he opened his mouth to say so, but Dorothea wasn’t paying him any attention. She had gone back to her fretting, holding a damp cloth, which she had produced from seemingly nowhere, up to Ferdinand’s skin, tipping the contents of her own vulnerary vial between his lips, and whispering something in his ear that made him smile. 

Lindhart soon joined her on the ground, having apparently satisfied himself that there was not enough blood involved to make him queasy. He shoved her hands aside to get a better look at his patient. “Heightened temperature, abrasions on the arms and neck, likely from injections of some kind, clammy skin,” he looked up at Ferdinand, who had shrunken further against Hubert’s form, his eyes flickering in and out of focus, “fatigue, or possibly mental trauma…do you remember what year it is, Ferdinand?”

“He doesn’t have amnesia,” Hubert snapped, frustrated. It had been agony waiting for help to arrive, but now that they were all here fussing Hubert wished they would go away and leave him alone with Ferdinand again, at least for another few minutes.

Lindhart just shrugged, eyes narrowing at how Ferdinand’s head was drooping into Hubert’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t rule it out so soon,” he said darkly.

Dorothea, somehow, was still talking. “Petra will fix this,” she said to Ferdinand reassuringly, gesturing towards the nest of his hair, “she’s a whiz at getting out knots.” She beamed over her shoulder towards the rest of the Eagles, huddled together in the dim light. 

“Dorothea is speaking the truth,” said Petra, stepping forward “I will braid it for you after we are returning to safety in Enbarr.” She twirled a strand of hair out from her own braid, and lowered her voice. “There is a style of braiding in Brigid that is being reserved for when someone is coming over the hump of great adversity. It will be looking very nice on you, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand tried to flash his trademark smile at her in return, but it came out a little strained.

Caspar, lacking all the tact of a wild dog, said “It’s cold down here, isn’t it? I wish I had brought my jacket….” To which Dorothea hissed “It’s a dungeon, you idiot, they didn’t exactly prioritize central heating.”

Their voices rose in argument, and Ferdinand grimaced, a sign that did not go unnoticed by Hubert. It would not do. “Get out,” he hissed, loudly enough that six heads snapped over to his, the lot of them effectively silenced. At the stricken look on Bernadetta’s face, he thought to add a hasty “Please.”

“No, it’s all right, Hubie” Ferdinand assured him softly. “I am happy to see all of you, truly.” He planted another smile on his face and tried rather admirably to look like his usual self, instead of the self that had just spent three weeks in solitary confinement. It was not working. Hubert looked desperately around for Edelgard, who gratefully caught on.

“Right,” she said deftly, “We’ll all have plenty of time to catch up with Ferdinand once we’re safely back in the Capitol. If your name isn’t Lindhart or Hubert, let’s go back up and prepare our departure, shall we?”

“Ugh, why does Hubert get to stay?” Caspar protested. Dorothea immediately shot him her best glare.

“Edie is right; we should wait until Ferdie is patched up before we berate him.” The others nodded in agreement. They were going to leave. _Thank the goddess._

“Wait!” Bernadetta said suddenly, rushing forward. She pulled a water skin out of her bag and set it down besides the three of them. “I brought an extra. Because you’re probably thirsty. Maybe. Even if you’re not you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to. Right.Thanks.AlsoI’veMissedYou. Ok, Bye!” She quickly scurried away, but Ferdinand immediately stretched his hands out for a drink. Hubert grabbed it for him and held it up to his lips, looking at Bernadetta’s retreating figure with fondness. _Bless her._

Edelgard ushered the rest of them up the stairs before herself turning back. “It is good to have you back, Prime Minister Aegir.” She said it mildly, neutrally even, but her face betrayed the extent of her happiness. It was a countenance that Hubert felt likely mirrored his own.

* * *

The chill of winter that pervaded the Palace seemed only to worsen as Hubert approached the infirmary, a woolen blanket draped across one arm and a silver tray clasped tightly in his hands. Through the tall, arched windows, the first snowfall of the year peppered the landscape of Enbarr in a milky white frost.

When he kicked open the door and shuffled forward with the freshly brewed pot of tea, a carafe of coffee, and two cups, Lindhart looked lazily up from his post at Ferdinand’s beside. The healer’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between the tray, Hubert, and Ferdinand with mild interest. “Hubert,” he stated in greeting. “You’re back early. Manuela predicted it would be an hour at least before you’d return, but it has only been,” he glanced at his wristwatch, “42 minutes.”

Hubert glared at him. He had left—indeed, 42 minutes ago—to settle some urgent matters with his spies, who had been working overtime to locate the Agarthan fortress of Shambhala. The infiltration of that fortress would be his crucial opportunity to subdue the Slitherers once and for all, and make them pay for what they had taken from so many. When his page had arrived with word of news, he’d had no choice but to leave to grant his men an audience. It had been promising and disappointing all at once. Several of his spies had indeed located a deep valley where they believed Shambhala lay enmeshed. They were no closer, however, to being prepared to take conclusive action against it.

Lindhart seemed unperturbed by his glare, but he thankfully made a quick exit, grabbing a biscuit from the top of the tray before leaving. Hubert settled immediately down into the folding chair the green-haired man had vacated, placing the tray with their drinks on the side table between them. “What did he have to say?” he broached casually, hoping it sounded conversational and not intrusive. After two weeks in the infirmary, Ferdinand was doing significantly better than when they had first brought him there, but Hubert still worried things could take a turn for the worse. And if he berated Manuela and Lindhart both for daily updates, Ferdinand did not need to know it.

Still, on this occasion he needn’t have been so anxious. Ferdinand gratefully accepted his tea cup and rewarded him with a broad grin, one that actually seemed to reach his eyes. That was rare, these days. “He says I can leave on Friday, so long as I continue to gain back some strength before then. How was your meeting?”

Hubert let out a sigh of relief. The Shadow War was immediately the last thing on his mind, and he ignored Ferdinand’s question. “That’s…good news.” _Wonderful, brilliant news. A temporary balm, at last, to his near-constant state of anxiety._

“Yes. I will finally be able to return to my office, and you will finally be free from having to deliver me all of my paperwork.” He gestured vaguely at the vast stack of papers beside the bed.

Edelgard and Hubert both had tried to get Ferdinand to set aside his work and allow himself a proper amount of time to recover, but it had been to no avail. Worked into a state of panic over missing just three weeks of work, Ferdinand had immediately insisted on proving himself still up to the task. He had demanded, no less than 24 hours after his return to Enbarr, that he, at the very least, be brought his outstanding correspondence, and Hubert, finally, had relented. What choice did he have? It would have been hypocritical to deny him, when Hubert would have behaved exactly the same way. In fact, he had taken to bringing his own work to Ferdinand’s room, to work alongside him and ensure the man didn’t overexert himself, and he was finding that he quite enjoyed the change in scenery over the dreariness of his own office. “It hasn’t been any trouble,” he muttered, looking away to hide the flush of his cheeks.

Ferdinand hummed, taking a sip of his tea. “Mhm, brewed quite exquisitely again, Hubert. I must say, you have risen quite dramatically through the ranks of those whom I will allow to fix me a cuppa. I think you are below only the Professor, now. Yesterday, when you were meeting with her and Edelgard, I had to ask Caspar to do it…horrendous. I can still taste the tea leaves. I don’t know _how_ he managed to miss the strainer so thoroughly.”

As he spoke, Hubert took the opportunity to shamelessly assess him. Ferdinand was in fact, looking much stronger, with his hair once again clean and swept back, as promised, into one of Petra’s intricate braids. He was bundled into a green sweater Bernadetta had knitted for him, and Hubert hastily passed him the blanket as well. The infirmary lacked, among other amenities, a suitable fireplace for a day like today. Ferdinand draped it across his legs, nodding his appreciation. Sitting up in his bed, talking animatedly, it was almost like he was himself again. The damage along his arms from all of the needles was hardly noticeable at all.

Hubert knew, of course, that it wasn’t nearly so simple. Ferdinand might be physically healing, but the effects of his capture showed themselves in other ways. Manuela, had told him, quite reluctantly, and with more than one reminder that _it was quite frankly none of his business, and she was only telling him strictly in the confidence that Ferdinand would ultimate benefit from his knowing,_ that Ferdinand now required a nightly sleeping serum to avoid the nightmares that so plagued him. He had not yet decided what he was meant to do with such information, so it had mainly only driven his own anxieties, and kept him up at night as well, long after he had been forced from the hospital wing for the day and was alone with his fears.

“Ferdinand,” he said suddenly, interrupting the other man’s prolonged explanation of the temperature at which a perfect Chamomile had to be brewed. He didn’t want to waste anymore time. He needed to say it now. “I was wondering if…if we could take supper together tonight. We must celebrate the news about Friday.”

Ferdinand blinked at him. “You always eat here, Hubert, unless Edelgard has otherwise summoned you.”

“Yes, but,” _How had he gone wrong_ already? "Tonight, I would like it to be just us two.” _No Dorothea with her gossip or Lindhart taking notes every time Ferdinand flinched at the noise of a fork scrapping harshly on a plate, or Caspar with his endless ‘get well soon’ cakes._

Ferdinand blinked at him again. Then his face fell. “Do the others not want to come? Of course, I understand, they can’t all be at my beck and call. In fact, are you quite sure _you_ can make it? I have pulled you from your work long enough, I truly do not mind eating alone, you do not need to coddle me—”

 _Fuck._ “I’ve asked them not to come,” Hubert hastily interrupted.

This did nothing to soothe his companion. “I see,” said Ferdinand glumly. “I understand. It would be wrong to continue to subject them—”

“I asked them not to come because I want it to be just the two of us. Because—oh flames, what the hell—because I would like it to be a _date_. Perhaps. If you would like that as well.” Goddess, he was stumbling over his words worse than Bernadetta that time he’d thought to introduce her to a few of his spies.

Ferdinand merely blinked at him for a third time, his face unreadable. “You are,” he paused. Shut his mouth. Opened it again. “You are asking me _out?_ On a date?”

“As we would not be leaving the infirmary, it can hardly be considered going _out_. But I am asking you on a date, yes.”

The pause that followed was nothing short of excruciating. Ferdinand continued to stare at him dumbly, and Hubert felt his very heart shrivel up like the frog carcasses he had once practiced faith magic on. _Damn Edelgard_. It wasn’t like her to misread the signs. It had been her words that had finally prompted him to confess it. _Ferdinand would like to know your feelings._ Well, now he knew them, and it was quite clear he didn’t return the sentiment. _Fuck._ Everything between them was ruined. This confession would tarnish all of their future interactions, for Ferdinand, who obviously felt nothing for him—How could he have ever thought, or hoped, otherwise? Who could love a Vestra?—would only pity him.

“Yes.”

Hubert’s head shot up, unsure he had heard him correctly. Ferdinand was _beaming._ Hubert reached a hand up to the black curl that covered one of his eyes and swept it hastily aside, to make sure he was seeing this properly. But Ferdinand’s radiant grin was unmistakable. “…Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course yes. I had wondered…what with the tea and the way you cared so much when I was… _there_ …and how ardently you’ve fretted over me now that I am back, and you taking your work beside my hospital cot…I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, of course, in case I was only imagining my sentiments might be returned, but then Edelgard said...” He looked up, his cheeks red with embarrassment, and Hubert could only _imagine_ what Edelgard had said, his own humiliation growing markedly, “I am sorry, I don’t mean to go prattling on. What I mean to say is, I have been hoping you would ask, for some time now. And I gratefully accept.” He took a hasty gulp of his tea in conclusion.

Hubert just gaped on him, trying to process all of that at one time. When he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “You hold…sentiments…for me?” which seemed a rather stupid thing to be hung up on, considering Ferdinand had just accepted his invitation for dinner.

“Is that not obvious?” He cleared his throat. “Hubert you must…you must know how fond I have grown of you. I have spent every morning since my return coming up with reasons to convince you to visit and then to stay, and I will not pretend that I haven’t felt suddenly lonelier when you leave in the evenings. And I am not foolish. I know it will be difficult, given our roles, and I know that I can never be first in your affections, but I have considered it—quite extensively, I can assure you—and have concluded that I am all right with being number two, if you’ll have me.”

“What?” He didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly, but he couldn’t help it. Ferdinand, think he was second in Hubert’s affections? It was ridiculous. It was—he felt safe to say, considering how often his dreams (and not all of them chaste) had drifted to the radiant man beside him over the past several moons—categorically untrue.

“I only mean that I understand Edelgard will always come first—”

“I should think I have room, even in my small version of a heart, for the both of you,” Hubert protested testily, bewildered that they were arguing even _now_ , though it somehow comforted him as he pushed forward, determined to make Ferdinand understand this. “You are not second in anything, least of all my affections,” he stated firmly. “Lady Edelgard is my Emperor, and my closest friend, but _you_ ….”

“Yes?”

“You are my light.”

It was Ferdinand’s turn to gape. “Hubert, I—”

But he was not finished. “Do you remember, during the war, when I left Edelgard to rescue you—”

“—which turned into I rescuing you, if I do so recall.”

“Will you be quiet for one _moment?_ You insufferable man.” It was said with impossible fondness. “What I am _trying_ to confess is that when I left Edelgard to pursue you, my position was made clear, to myself, at least. Some part of me longed for you even before then, but afterwards—Well, it has only been you, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand’s eyes were getting rather watery from the rush of sentimentality. He abandoned his tea cup on the bedside table and reached out both his hands to envelop Hubert’s. “Would it be terribly ignoble of me to suggest a kiss, though we have yet to have our first date? Only, I do not think I will be able to hold out that long, you see, when I am dying to have you in my arms—”

Hubert did not allow him to finish, silencing him by crossing the little distance between them and pressing his lips—finally, gloriously—against Ferdinand’s. It was a thrill unlike any he had yet known, a small kiss that ended too quickly but alone was better than a dozen of his wildest fantasies. When they broke apart, he wasted no time in going back in for another.

Ferdinand was right in that would not be easy. So much still stood between, including, and foremost, the very war that had landed Ferdinand here and continued to swirl around them like an unwanted dinner guest. It mattered not. Nothing mattered but the fruity smell of Ferdinand’s hair and the freckles dotting his nose which could only be noticed from inches away, and the softness of his lips as they enveloped Hubert’s own in their warmth and care.

“I should go secure the dinner arrangements,” he whispered against Ferdinand’s neck. “There was meant to be flowers, and candles, and lamb…”

“I need only you,” Ferdinand breathed, scooting over in the small hospital cot so that Hubert could join him. “Stay, please.”

And he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Ferdinand caught up in both the moment and his intense love and respect for the man in his arms: all i need is you <3
> 
> Ferdinand slightly later in the evening: ...What is that you were saying about flowers? Candles? :D
> 
> Hubert: I will arrange this for you instantly.


End file.
